


Maybe Tomorrow

by Newty



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religion, Slow Burn, Trauma, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newty/pseuds/Newty
Summary: My take on the Shadowbringers MSQ from the POV of a druid WoL and my characters Nolanel and Elliot as a Crystarium Guard and Eulmoran bonded citizen.I've also added and removed certain plot elements of the story to explore some different themes the First can offer!





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Contains minor SHB MSQ Spoilers (LVL 71)!  
> CW: death reference

Galden did not like this man. He followed at the informant’s side, head slightly bowed against the midday sun. The crystal glass of the Musica Universalis blinded him as he walked along the suspended path. Chatter rose from the market stalls. The night’s return a week ago had shocked new life into the Crystarium–and Eulmore’s immediate threat of invasion turned revelry to sobriety.

The usual suspects crowded the Wandering Stairs, grins shone from the merchants selling lanterns, soldiers bumped shoulders and discussed plans to visit the Spagyrics or Hortorium. People making last minute preparations annoyed the market regulars, and children shrieked their envy at gimmick items on back shelves. Despite the noise, the informant from Eulmore–Varian Craetin, he called himself–spoke clear and evenly as he walked.

“The people of the empire are not unwitting. ‘Twould take more than a few week’s campaign to have them rallying for our destruction. Their morale is naught to ours, and naught is of any fear to us but the sin eaters. Even so, I believe we are stronger than their false might.”

His footfalls landed perfectly, never crossing the metal grates of the bridge to keep his steps silent. His hands were crossed behind his back; strips of scars coated his palms and fingers. The pale silver of his long hair blended easily with his white suit. A smile never seemed far from his thin lips. He embodied the upmost confidence–his chin never lowered, his gaze never traveled, and naught could affect him to pause. It seemed he could ask someone to damn themselves for him, and gladly they would, praise at their mouth in thanks for their fall.

“It has been long since their vaunted campaigns. Despite their imperial proclamations, Lord Vauthry is unable even to fully dominate the hills of Khulosia beyond a few malms of his palace. Only the sin eaters within his vicinity are subject to his influence–and intent. Beware them if you come across them, but you should not have to contend with their claws. Those will be dealt with by another.”

Except he totally seemed like an asshole, too. Naught drew his attention away from his path–naught could interest him. He never let Galden get a word in to comment. His long bang swung in front of his face several times, but he cared more for the mystique of the look than seeing fully. What other type of person would wear a completely white three piece suit with red shoes? No, this man was not to be trusted.

“Your foe is the Eulmoran army and their crystal generator. Most spells in the city are facilitated by the crystal in its heart, the Mainstay. Shut it down. Since the guard does not specialize in magic any longer, jamming the generator will cause the weaker of their mages to take silence. Still, do not doubt their drive to fight back: ‘tis not that they can be convinced more easily than the citizenry, but that they can be forced.”

But all he said made sense. Everything from his mouth was truth–except, mayhap, his own name. That was the only thing Galden could not confirm. It all made him want to ask, _just who are you?_ but he doubted Varian would answer with aught more than a perfect smile.

Their walk halted at the top of the Rotunda. Varian’s rant had been timed to the very second. “Ser Feran will explain your role in more detail. May you ever walk in the shade,” he said, keeping one arm tucked behind him as he swung the other into a flourishing bow. His focus lay beyond Galden, however, which caused the druid to turn around.

A man approached in the uniform of the city guard. He walked stiffly, not of injury but self-consciousness, and his upper lip twitched as he reordered himself to speak. But he couldn’t; he gaped at Varian a moment longer before he met Galden’s gaze and gave a salute. The extra seconds found him his composure. “Ser Nolanel Feran. Captain of the guard’s seventh.”

Galden responded on habit. Working with the Alliance taught him to respond to any city-state’s salute with his own–he crossed his arms and bowed as an Adder. “Galden Gardas. I’m with the Scions. A pleasure.”

Nolanel swallowed. “Aye,” he started, then trailed his focus to a glint in the ceiling.

For a mercy, Galden turned away–but Varian had disappeared.

Behind, Varian descended the stairs into the Aetheryte plaza, giving a languid wave and a knowing smirk. Gone without a word–or a sound. Galden scowled at his oversight. “A slick one, huh? That bastard.”

Nolanel prodded a curl of his hair behind his ear and grunted his assent. “He gives the impression he’s from another time, but he’s forced to make his way in this one.”

“What a concept.”

“I never claimed imagination. Experience is mine, though, and I believe it has value aside yours. You’ve my thanks for your help at the Switch.”

Galden scrunched his nose at the memory: flames over fields, the sickening beat of stone wings, the sap of bone and blood that spilled from a chrysalis when he tried to free a woman afore she turned. “You don’t fight the easy battle here.” He started down the stairs for a quick distraction, pausing for Nolanel to redirect him.

“No sir.” Nolanel rubbed the scratched metal of his ear clip and joined Galden towards the plaza. Hunks of crystal loomed passed, humming with energy, looking as if they could strike the stairwell in their jagged orbit. Nolanel payed them no mind.

Galden did. He followed one of the crystal’s paths and asked, “How long’ve you been at this fight?”

“Eight years. I was a shepherd afore Captain Brucemont trained me.” He took an audible breath and shook his head. His mind clung to the script he’d had to abandon since introducing himself, and he spoke quicker now: “Many have worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement to work with one of the Exarch’s homeland. You are something of an inspiration to them. But I shan’t allow myself that blindness when I must watch mine own back–not yours. I pray you understand. I must lead.”

Galden wondered if that was the most polite, roundabout, and passive-aggressive way to say ‘stay out of my way, hotshot’ he’d ever heard. He told himself not to be offended by it. He still was. And though he tried to stop himself, he still scoffed. “Do what you want.”

Nolanel understood this and apologized. “Forgive me. If nerves must be my master, let it be today, not the morrow.” He tugged on his bangs and sniffed. The temperature shifted as they descended the northern path. Among the underground lanterns, plants shone with luminescent greens and blues. Water reflections danced across the tunnel walls. From the far wall of the Hortorium, the well turbine hushed and squeaked. Nolanel spoke over it. “In any case, once we reach the city, our task must needs split. You are meant to take the Mainstay. That the army headquarters is there is not by coincidence. Their lives are meant to protect the generator. We expect that zone to host the worst of the fighting. You can see well in the dark?”

Galden stretched an arm over his head and sighed, bored of preambles. “I must brag that I’ve more experience in it than most.”

“Good. As do I, which is one more reason they split us. Get to your place and shut it down. Destroy it if you have to.”

“Uh huh.” No new info yet, really.

“Their army will be forced to prioritize the citizenry–although mayhap in appearance only. Nevertheless, my contingent will cause hell in the upper level to force as many of their men–by courtesy or no–to defend the feckless nobles. That and the sin eaters will demand my attention; you shan’t see me again. I trust you’re familiar with crystal jammers?”

Galden liked the sound of his thick shoes against the metal Hortorium floor better than Nolanel’s hoarse voice. “Aye, used plenty of 'em back home.”

Nolanel didn’t bother to give an acknowledgement. Almost done with this performance, anyway. “We need to just grab you some potions from here. Most of us are outfitted with ethers or…”

Every alchemist in the area was either overseeing an experiment or hiding–no one was available to help.

Nolanel and Galden groaned.

“Antidotes,” Nolanel sighed. He crossed his arms tight across his chest. “Might as well go over boarding as we wait. Someone’ll deliver a written notice to your lodging, so at least I’ll save you the reading. We’ve three ships we’re taking to Kholusia tomorrow. You’ll be on the _Acheron_ with me. Vanguard. Our flagship is the _Noah_ and our reserve is the _Plegethon_. Asides myself, there are three other captains on the _Acheron_ : Idristan, Aubrane, and the actual ship captain. From there, I and the others have four boats apiece and fifteen men to each.”

“You’re not talking airships, are you?”

“No. Water ships.” Nolanel replied humorlessly–whether he was humorless or it was a result of his eternally piqued tone, Galden wasn’t sure. “We’ll land on the eastern beach, assemble by Gatetown, and begin the siege soon after.”

Nolanel tried to retreat into his mind. But the glowing plants, this stranger aside him, and the stress of tomorrow made him restless enough to continue talking. His lips pursed. “Are you a plant person?”

It was probably the first question Nolanel asked that wasn’t meant to confirm information from the source. Galden treated it no differently. “To a degree.” He shrugged.

Nolanel swiped at a low-hanging frond. “Not a fan. Don’t know how these folk keep them livin’ when plants don’t complain when they’re hurt.”

Staring after the plant Nolanel hit, Galden replied, “Believe me, they do.”

—

Elliot shut the lid of his piano and pinned the playing stool to his hip. With his free hand, he waved to the booth at the rear of the Beehive. “Tryph, let there be light, would you?”

A machine clicked somewhere above. All light from the gentle rose-oil lamps faded. Darkness reigned for a moment.

The stage erupted into darting colors and flashing spotlights. Piped-in music flooded from hidden speakers, and the room shook with each drum of the rapid bass. Elliot whined, dropped the seat, and leapt to the glossy floor.

“For the gods’ sake, at _least_ play something tolerable.”

Tryphon’s silhouette vanished under the table. His long ears still stuck out. “The gods aren’t around anymore. Asides, the Queen hired me to keep this place flashy. Try harder with your demands next time.”

Elliot leaned over the counter and squinted at the upside-down control board. He pressed a random button, turning a nearby light green. Pulleys screeched above. A curtain tumbled to shroud stage left.

“And your patrons hired you to hit piano keys, not fumble around the control booth.” Tryphon slapped at Elliot’s hand from the floor, like a cat.

“Just turn the lights on for the stage team. I can’t leave until that piano is back where it belongs.”

Tryphon stood. He pushed Elliot back, reset the curtain, and replaced the dancing lights with the overheads. “Why the rush?”

Elliot fixed the crease in his tie from hanging over the counter. “I have an engagement. A woman approached me after the show. I explained things to her and she says she thinks she knows my father.”

Throwing himself into his chair, Tryphon groaned.

People emerged from backstage in ebony uniforms. They chattered indeterminately as they swept the aisles, refilled the oil lanterns, and hauled the piano from center stage. Footsteps drummed on the catwalks above, where stereo equipment and strobe lights underwent tests. The Beehive steadily transformed from a concert hall back into a strip club as Elliot fiddled with his tie pin. He spoke at it rather than to Tryphon: “No–no matter how unlikely, I must check any leads to him.”

“All right, inspector extraordinaire. What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Retherford. Her estate is in the western towers.”

The fashionable side, at least. But Tryphon’s expression twisted to distaste. “Her husband is a souse.”

“I’m not there to meet him.”

“Well, shall we make a bet? Is she hopelessly in love with you or not?”

The stage curtains parted to swallow the glossy white of the piano. Tryphon jabbed one of the far buttons to ignite the backstage lights. A muffled thanks called from somewhere. The room lightened further with the raising of the curtains around either raised stage, revealing glossy poles.

Elliot scowled, frozen to the spot, and managed to counter, “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, you’re a performer. Being too good to be true is part of your act. Who could help falling in love with you?”

“That’s too surface level for me.”

“I’d call it skin deep.”

Elliot rolled his eyes and leaned back on his heels. “No matter what it is, I don’t want it. But if it is my lot, I wish it would at least bring me someone I would want.”

Tryphon put his elbows to the counter in interest. Gossip time. “And who would you want it to fool?”

“Not _fool_ but–No, never mind. I can’t waste time when I could be getting ready.” Elliot nodded in finality. “Good luck with the next show.”

Staring uninterested as the last of the Beehive transformed, Tryphon griped, “Back to regular business for now, then the opera tonight.”

“Oof. Spotlight hell.”

“Only hell there is. Now go, I need to hear about this meeting when you get out of it.”

By playful habit, Elliot jeered, “Apostate,” and twirled away to the exit.

His eyes adjusted swiftly to the Skyfront’s glare. Wind flew by, carrying the scent of brine, and it did little to satisfy Elliot’s want to hear the water. But to imagine the sound of the surf, he must also hear the tinker and groan of progress–labor–penury. Elliot indulged a patronizing nostalgia that had little right to be his: bright mornings near the beach and sea foam, food caught nearby and home-cooked fresh, the intimate community driven by unity instead of competition. He knew it all once–but he long had forgotten it for purple and gold.

Now he knew not to go below, where the stench of gutted fish and squalor would appall him; the wooden walkways over mud would scream beneath him; the strangling humidity and furious glares would choke him if hypocrisy did not. The world beneath and beyond the ivory tower of Eulmore was not his. It would never astound him like the admiration is his audience’s eyes as he performed; he could not wake in warm blankets to a ready breakfast there, or know his gilded life was safe from monsters, brigands, sin eaters… Too many things that would hurt him when he had only one external worry here: to ensure his patrons were pleased with him.

Something haunted them. Although they were husband and wife, they did not speak love or laugh over dinner together. They drifted through different worlds without pretending that they could ever reunite. The lady tapped impatience with her restless hands, swore beauty in each rib she could count through her skin, and swung from fixation to fixation with each turn of the day. Among the clock collection, the mountain of painted scarves, the half-melted array of candles that his wife assembled in the last month, the lord would sometimes pull his watery eyes from his feet to undo the closet’s combination lock. He often vanished inside it for hours, emerged to gorge himself on what the lady did not eat, and trudged outside to watch for seabirds.

Elliot did not ask questions. He knew the lives of every other person in the Canopy in lieu. Still, they did not keep him for that–they never listened to him, only to his music. Each morning and evening he would play the piano in their solarium, thank them, smile to them, watch them silently leave to their half-lives, and escape to the Beehive’s backstage. He talked with the dancers between their sets, read in the prop seats and beds, and sang for the crowds whenever he could secure a time slot.

The routine was murderous, the conversations pointless, but the attention he received banished enough of his longing that he could live content on the regular.

Elliot hated settling for this. He continued back to his patrons’ estate, thinking of lighting his votive candles to not think about his father. But he missed him. Five years alone in the city had not treated his sensitivities well, and more then ever Elliot ached for someone who loved him.


	2. Battle Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief child abuse, mild violence

As the sky shifted from morning gray to eternal gold, Galden stopped paying attention to the talk about him for the sight of the shore. He stood from his circle of soldiers, strode to the _Acheron_ ’s side, and put a hand against the railing. Salt stuck to his fingers. Rubbing it off, he leaned to watch the water crash and torrent from the bulwark, left boiling white astern.

Kholusia appeared on the horizon during his idyll. Whistles screamed. The crowd laying around deck leapt to attention. People surged from below deck, chattering for fresh air and action. Nolanel appeared on the forecastle, silhouetted with another against the glaring sun. They spoke inaudibly, then the stranger broke away and hollered for the tender boats to be readied.

She stepped easily to the lower deck. At every step, the sword at her side taunted with a clink. A frown seemed her eternal expression; the scar perched on her nose shone a fresh red. If she was not death, she was certainly friends with it, and apparitions walked in her shadow. Her course cut straight to Galden. She stood near to his height despite the constant tilt of her head–the result of an old injury.

Galden stood still in the chaos. Tired of the confused stares to the Adder salute, he gave a slight bow and introduced himself.

The woman observed his weapon instead of his face. When she spoke, her voice had the deep timber of organs. “Vera Chastain,” she said, and saluted him. “Feran’s second. We’ll array– _arrive_ –by the end of the bell. Get yourself to Feran by then. You’re with him 'til we land.”

“And yourself?”

“The opposite. But if things go stale at the top, I’ll be coming to split heads with you.”

“Understood. I won’t promise to save a few of them for you. But where’s Nolanel?”

“Praying.” Her reply brooked all seriousness and no room for question. “He doesn’t have much time left for it.”

Everyone about them began hauling out supplies and bearing ropes to order. Galden shrugged. “Then I just busy myself with what everyone else is doing.”

“Aye. Lovely volunteer,” she chaffed.

It was easy to speak with her. Prompt. “I call it impatience. Still, good fortune, then.”

Though sincere, Vera smiled like a grimace. “Glory to you. Hell to them.”

She marched passed him to the next task. He turned to the join the others, stringing lines, checking supplies, loading weapons, securing oars and anchors. As the shore neared, the towers of Eulmore rose in tandem. Anxiety strung the air about the crew with lead, but no one would give voice to anything but an echo to Vera’s enthusiastic roar.

The ship captain soon took to yelling commands for anchoring. Nolanel emerged in silence to view the gig. With a word from him, pulleys screeched to loose it with boat after boat into the water. Still, he boarded last, speaking hushedly with a person in a nurse’s garb. Vera smacked his shoulder as she passed him and swung over the railing into her boat.

Nolanel bowed his head and marched to his gig. The others looked up to him, throwing their arms in the air in cheer and pounding the ship’s side for luck. He tsked as he snatched the rope netting and descended, japing, “What’ve we done to get this job, huh?”

One of the hands grabbed him by the scruff of his cape. Nolanel leapt the rest of the way, unsettling the boat’s balance. Spray spat over the edges. The man who tried to rip him from the net tripped; Nolanel elbowed him into the crowd and kicked him aside. An oar splashed into the water. A scuffle followed to retrieve it. Visibly unaffected, Nolanel took his place at the tiller. “'Naught good’ is the answer,” he said. “But you’re with it and you’re with me. They didn’t tell us to go get ourselves bloody 'cause they thought we’d all go small at the prospect. We get to Eulmore, you stand like the Crystarium knows you can. This is for home and the stars, and all the Warrior of Darkness has done for us. Don’t let them down. I sure as hell ain’t letting you all go to hell without me.” Barely taking a breath, he whistled to the ship that he was ready. A pair of whistles sounded in reply.

Galden curled his legs under the thwart brace he sat on, knocking his boots into the stored boxes of fresh water and tack. The starboard oars rose skyward as the opposite line dipped into the water. The boat seemed to stay against the ship for several strokes longer, then enough distance had been gained for every blade to have room enough to row.

Nolanel voiced his approval curtly, then added to the renegade man: “You’ve had a week to decide if you dislike me, and if that’s your idea of me, go right damn ahead. But if you want to compromise this mission when you only have to put up with my presence another few bells, I have _no_ qualms throwing you under that fucking ship. You understand?”

Barnacles peeked from just under the waterline of the _Acheron_. So close, anything in the water would be dragged into the ship’s wake, ripped across its hull, and drowned afore a rescue line could be thrown.

A grumbled “yes ser” was his admission. Nolanel let it go. The boat lurched over the waves, oar blades flashing through the water. Absently, Nolanel scratched at the peeling varnish with his free hand. He disliked doing naught in comparison with the others.

Galden, excluded as well by status, fared no better. He guarded his face from the glare of the exposed ocean and counted each second in time with the united rowers. The waves beat at the hull and spilled into the boat, half-soaking them all with spray.

The first boat to leave–one of Idristan’s–plowed through the last barrier wave and rode to the shore. Its keel dragged on the sand and scraped along inland. Its occupants cheered and called, then set to unpack their supplies for transport. Their lieutenant squeezed forward to the bow. The boat exploded.

Wood burst and splintered, stabbing into the soldiers behind. People rushed into the water, screaming, sand clumps and wreckage showering in with them. Smoke plumed from the smoldering vessel, red with heat and blood.

Nolanel wrenched the tiller aside. The boat groaned and dipped precariously. Water sped into the boat. Half the crew abandoned their oars to bale it out with noisy tin buckets. Curses and growls arose amongst the ruckus of sloshing, knocking, and grunts. They stopped by Nolanel’s bark for silence.

Galden slammed his fist against the railing. “They knew we were coming. Godsdamned double-agent.”

Over the din, Nolanel ordered, “No one touch that beach.” He released the tiller to drag a hand across his face. His fingers barred his mouth as he took an audible breath and hissed, “That smell’s dynamite.”

The Echo, like an arrow, stabbed into Galden’s mind, paralyzing him as if it were death. His senses warped, peaking and crashing, until their dissolution. He knew nothing. The world seemed to cave and crush him, and all was white; the empty air seared his nostrils and parched his throat, the silence rang in his head like bells. He shut his eyes, and like a vacuum, the emptiness fled away, replaced with darkness, smoke, and ash. Yet the hells had not risen. He felt that he stood now in the earth’s embrace–his lungs seized from the pressure–but it was the clatter of pickaxes in the distance that confirmed so.

Dust filtered his vision and cluttered his breath. He rubbed his eyes to adjust them to the gloom, and his hands scraped the rock walls for guidance. An unsteady light blinked far away. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever and to nowhere at once, but Galden resolved to follow it. 

Above him, the ceiling dipped and rose with no order. He set a hand against it at its lowest point, where he had to crouch under the rock like an unwitting titan, and the rock trembled from an unknown source.

Scraping began behind him. Galden swung to face the source, fighting the urge to draw his weapon. Nothing could perceive him here–this was the Echo’s power, but naught could dispel the terror he felt in this place.

A boy emerged from a hole in the wall. Red scratches burned on his hands and knees from crawling, but he moved unheeding of them, a package clutched to his chest. He wiped his arm to his blackened forehead, glanced to the light with a look of resignation, and bounded the opposite way into the darkness.

Galden pursued him. The boy’s footsteps scuffed against refuse and dirt, leading Galden on. The tunnel took a sharp curve and opened into a massive cavern. Lanterns hung about the wooden supports, illuminating the tattered miners clinging about thin scaffolds and ladders. Black veins of ore struck out against the dead gray stone like a river, glittering in the yellow candle flickers. Smoke and dust swung about, rising from the earth and pouring from the walls with each crack of a sledgehammer. Men panted as they called out to one another, cursing, laughing, heaving life from two hundred fulms beneath the surface.

The boy skittered passed them. He pulled the package from his embrace and tore it open beneath a lamp. Slime from oil dirtied the panes, but the light it gave was enough for the boy to see his work–and see that something was wrong with it. Crystals broke free of the paper wrapping and stuck to his clothes. He rubbed them off, ran to the nearest miner, and handed over the delivery.

The miner tousled the boy’s dark hair, said, “Thanks, Canary. Back up top with you,” and sauntered off. He cupped his mouth and yelled, “Dynamite, you bastards! Pack it up!”

The Echo fractured. Sound and sight frayed, but all other sense died; shrieks split the mine apart and swallowed reason. Images flashed and joined: smoke and complaints, men scrubbing skin raw from dirt, sighing in the stale air of the surface, plodding muddy paths, smacking aged storehouses as they went, spitting, turning, screaming, running from black smoke.

Fire at the pit entrance, horses tearing from cars and trampling young trappers, gunshots in vengeance, broken glass in the rock, men spewing free of the lift, legs tangled beneath them, bleeding.

The boy fled from the smoke. A call from one of the miners froze him. He bolted to the entrance and shoved a dying horse from the way. The wooden supports of one of the eastern shafts trembled. Lips moving with an inaudible, repeated prayer, he ran into the growling earth.

Everything shattered from blinding sunlight to darkness and bubbling charred skin, groaning, bodies burst and crushed, maimed arms, missing legs, singed hair, howling cries, searing steam and fire, mouths mawed, red, eyes red, and death-thick smoke.

Explosions burst in deeper shafts. Unnatural wind howled through the chamber, pelting the remaining miners with hot dust. The boy tore at the wreckage. Men tramped passed him. He grabbed one of them by the arm; they pushed him off. His mouth twisted with rage. He ripped a lantern from the nearest escapee, tucked it against his burning chest, and scoured the floor again.

A screech severed the sound of the mine– _They’ll run us out of Gatetown! We’ll_ –and cut to silence. Galden’s vision tattered. The rock and smoke vanished for rotted wood walls, a man’s bloody body lain across the dirt floor, and a woman clawing at her face. Red lines scored her death-pale cheeks, and dark bags made her yellow eyes seem almost white. Gray streaks marred her tangled hair, and pain wrinkled her forehead–but fury controlled her, not sorrow.

She snatched the boy by his hair and wrenched him to the floor. He toppled, all awkward limbs, and she beat him until bruises lifted, purple on his filthy skin. Her lithe fingers coiled around his arm. She pulled him back, shouting wordlessly. The boy writhed, batted weak fists at her, and wheezed for breath. She released him and swiped at his face; he dived to protect himself, but her long nails caught his ear.

The woman’s lip pressed together in disgust as she flicked red from her fingers. She tramped away, tan skirts catching beneath her steps. The door growled open and shut, leaving Galden, unpercieved and helpless, alone with the body and boy.

On the floor, the boy shook in hatred. He clutched his head, blood spilling between his red-raw fingers. It was only then Galden noticed the fresh burns on the boy’s arms and feet. Panting, animalistic in rage, the boy turned to the man’s body, eyes all ice. Sorrow for the day had abandoned their blue; betrayal and confusion had left him long ago; he saught only blame with his glare, and this time, it would not be towards himself.

Whiteness like a pall enveloped Galden and pitched him back to the Kholusian shore. People shouted and bickered, water slapped against the ducking hulls of the boats, and the unnatural heavens glared their castigating heat. The beach warped and joined with the pale of the sky. Salt stung in Galden’s eyes. Water continued to dot his clothes and slick his skin.

Somewhere between the seconds where the vision seized and left Galden, Nolanel had jumped into the water. Waist-deep in the ocean, he held his poleaxe by the end of its shaft and swung the blade’s face into the water. A wave hurdled to shore. The sand soaked itself brown. Nolanel stomped inland and, muttering about how he still hated the godsdamned ocean, traveled along the surf to the next boat. He called, “Captain Idristan, the beach is loaded with gunpowder!”

From where he sat alert at the tiller, Idristan laughed and swiped at the part of his thin hair. “No shit, Lieutenant!”

“That’s no shit, Captain, thank you! I mean to return to the _Acheron_ –there are barrels aboard of grain we may displace. Fill them with water, and we’ll defuse the bombs by drowning them through their caps. Simple enough.”

Idristan motioned over his shoulder to the northern cliffs. “I’ve send a squadron to check for a landing beyond this one.”

“They won’t find one, sir. Our scouts confirmed so already days ago–asides what I know.”

Idristan muttered to the soldier beside him, presumably to send them in pursuit of the departed group. Talk swarmed up again as their conversation swept through the restless army. Nolanel waved for Vera to relay his plan to the flagship _Noah_ while he began requisitioning barrels.

Galden leapt into the water. The cold barely registered in his focus. Beneath the bleached sand, roots of railway vine and sea oats stretched through the earth. Their aether glew and pulsed like veins, sea-blue, across the shore–curtailed in places by the sharp heads of spades and shovels. He started for the glow.

A knife shrieked as it grazed his pauldron. Nolanel’s voice followed, cracking with rage: “Get _back_!

Galden ignored him to check the knife–its hilt stuck sideways from a patch of dull sand. If the blade had been longer, the mine beneath could have detonated. He groaned and left it there. “Althyk as my fucking witness, are you mad?”

“You _really_ want to ask that from where you are? We’re lucky we didn’t see this entire beach blow with our heads. Fire travels fast underground. If it reaches the next bomb, you won’t have time to complain.”

“You throw things around like that and we won’t have to worry about the fire or aught else either, kid.”

“Get back. We don’t have time for this.”

“We’d have more time if you’d stop this shit and listen. I can tell where the mines are underground. There’s tunnels, too.”

“Like hell the mines’re here. You don’t know a damned thing about this place.”

“The _bomb_ mines. Just stay where you are and I’ll get across.”

Nolanel whistled for attention. The corner of his mouth twitched when he ordered, “Shoot him.”

Despite the muttered protests from the others, a woman astern rose a wooden bow. As she knocked an arrow, the bow trembled and warped, its wood stretching until it lassoed around her wrists. The boat pitched as people fled from it. Nolanel jerked to help, but authority froze him; he cursed himself and held his ground. The woman screamed and slammed her hands into the boat rim to crack the wooden shackles.

With the army’s attention split, Galden wrung his cloak of water, stretched out his shoulder, and followed the aether-lit path. Seafoam marked his way for the first few yalms, then he walked alone. The wind scored into the sand and blew grains against his legs. Caution skipped his heart, not guilt–if it took scaring a few soldiers preemptively to get them across this damn beach, so be it. After each step, he forced a root from the ground to mark the way. Rumors hissed from the water: spy, witch, saint.

Unwillingly, Nolanel seemed to understand. He walked to the beginning of the path and asked, almost tiredly, “Why do you keep secrets?”

From atop the grasses of Kholusia, Galden said, “You weren’t a shepherd, Feran.”

Nolanel’s lips smashed together. Naught but a miracle could have divined him to cross the beach as Galden did–at this moment, he was powerless and disgraced. He didn’t survive this long trusting others at their word, but Galden’s word continued to be truer than his own. It didn’t make sense. He was a fool for begging logic to help him in half a battlezone–logic avails naught in chaos–and he knew it.

Galden operated on his own rules. Order be damned–except in his head. It was as simple as their natural ignorance, his incongruous existence in this world, and the need to move on without confronting either. Like him, his gift was an anomaly that belonged to the Source–he could no sooner explain his being here than he could how he saw past buried explosives. Even the simple version–Lar Nimloth, a sentient tree, gave him the power to manipulate plant life in exchange for his fealty–would baffle everyone in earshot and really turn him away from trust.

Nolanel reeled and hated. Let him. At least he will come up the bank and on to Gatetown with his anger, and not wrack his brain in the ocean.

And so he would. Nolanel stabbed his lance into the ground and turned to whistle at his company. “Listen! Follow the path he’s set up. No deviating, no shoving–or I swear to the gods and whoever else is waiting for us below that I’ll send you to them.”

As they turned to gather the supply kits from the boat and bring them forward, Nolanel returned his attention to Galden. Ahead of the group, he stepped onto the path.

Part of him expected a ruse. Levitation magic, a subtle change in the path, old-fashioned devilry. But he soon stood with Galden, overlooking the operation. He frowned, almost upset he wasn’t blown to pieces to unmask a spy in this “scion.”

“Don’t waste your breath explaining to me,” he said.

Galden shrugged. “I won’t ask aught from you then either.”

Without further word or indication, they both started back towards the water to help.

—

Elliot knocked twice on the door. The gold door handle stung his hand with cold. A heel struck the floor tile within the villa. When he turned the handle, he found it turned on the other side by his host.

Mrs. Retherford beamed. She spun to lead him inside, her skirts swirling around her heels in dizzying pinstripes. She shielded her laughter with a slim hand arrayed in jewels and lace.

Elliot mimicked her smile. “I apologize for having you wait.”

“No, no! You’re on time. I was just discussing you with my maid.” Behind her, a small woman in monochrome dress floated into the next room.

He inclined his head. She had no friends over, then, and he was alone with her. “All good things, one prays.”

“I could never say a word against you!”

She rose her hand to his lowered head, then kissed him on the cheek in assurance.

By politeness, he returned the gesture. But the heavy powder of her blush clung to his lips, and he knew for certain that this meeting would not end well. Though anyone could say she was beautiful and mean it, she was older than him–and insecure of it–so her discreetness payed the price.

“What a darling!” she exclaimed.

So much shouting. Elliot sidestepped, heel striking the polished floor, and drew his thumb comfortingly across his ring. The green hydrangea in its face matched nothing of his burnt orange outfit, but it was one of few things his father left him.

Mrs. Retherford led him to the parlor. Blue wallpaper stretched to the domed ceiling’s fresco, fleur-de-lis pointing to uninspired clouds and frightening cherubs. The furniture, too, was of the same dark blue as the walls. Gold trim interrupted the overwhelming monotony on both things, but the doors provided the only true escape by their simple carving. Elliot banished a frown as they shut after him.

Windows overlooked the sea at the end of the room. But the water was gray; the eternal day’s white drained color from the world, reminding Elliot of his ache for darkness. Mrs. Retherford swayed into his sight. Her dress was the same color as the walls. Good gods. At the very least, vases of large chrysanthemums marked each table.

A couch stood out from the rest in canary yellow. By a comforting impulse–or spite–he approached it to sit at her invitation. She gave it.

Then she sat next to him. Elliot kept still a moment to shut his eyes and assure himself. She openly studied his profile. His earring attracted her interest–at least, it was the only thing she could compliment aloud. Part of it she recognized: the white quartz of the Church of Light. Because she did not understand the obsidian clasp, she ignored it.

“A pious soul!” she began. “What an endearing vanity. Religion does wonders to people. 'Tis the only thing that highlights wrongs so well as to make them irresistible.”

Elliot hummed and squinted at the painted clouds. “I find it teaches gratefulness for what is left of the world.”

“One should think you’d be more grateful to Lord Vauthry and your generous patrons for your life here, not some long-gone mythology.”

“I shall endeavor to give thanks where it is due.”

Desperate to change the topic, Mrs. Retherford turned to the side table and selected a flower from it. She spun the stem in her hands, then dropped it suddenly to speak. “Well, I must thank you for your show today. Your playing is truly a gift.”

“One I owe my father for. He taught me all I know, from piano to medicine and religion.”

“At least the first two have use!”

He ached to leave more. But patience was his virtue. Evidently, it was not Mrs. Retherford’s: she tucked her noisy skirts away, skimming her fingernails across his thigh. Neither of them reacted to it–not visibly.

She ignored the mention of his father and spoke only of what was charming and beautiful. Lakeside picnics and fresh caramel, winding up delicate music boxes, spreading lace under dinner plates and silver utensils, growing morning glories and learning dance steps, eating cherries on a tree-swing. Her memories alighted her face in joy, and though Elliot found himself passively enjoying her stories, he came here for a reason. Tedium blurred his vision as she dove into an anecdote about a feathered fan. Charming woman, but false. He nodded along, fingers tapping his crossed knee in an aria.

She wanted a captive. She had one in him, and she found him thoughtful because his mind wandered, and shy because his replies came lower and less often. To get him to look at her, she adjusted her collar necklace; to get him to touch her, she rose her hand and asked him to walk to the window with her.

Elliot did not care for collars, but he rose and accepted her hand. As she stood, grinning victoriously, she pulled her hand up to his mouth to kiss.

Letting go, Elliot asked how well she enjoyed the ocean.

She scurried to the window without him so he wouldn’t spy her frown. The lock clicked and shrieked from the salt crystallized in it, but it yielded to part the paned glass. Even without its filter, the gray expanse remained lifeless from this distance. “Very well,” she said, though the lock betrayed her. “When you sing or write, do you ever take it as inspiration?”

“Not ever. I rely most on my faith.”

“How silly!” she chastised. “Couldn’t you write about me? Couldn’t you find it possible to make a muse of me?”

“One must worship their muse.”

“You could worship me.” She snared his hands and brought them pleadingly to her heart. Her fingers tangled with his, trapping him. Finally, he was forced to look at her. She smiled jerkily, perhaps too aware of her boldness, but she turned radiant at his returned unease.

Worship was simple, but it could not be requested. The heart gives itself fully and without reason to what it chooses. It could not be directed, only obeyed–and hers saw in Elliot the opportunity to love herself.

Elliot understood this. He could not fault her. The woman begging him for acceptance had been made wretched by years of yearning, loneliness, and station. He knew he was exactly the same. But she was brave in her adoration. Elliot never knew love strong enough to banish fear, never a love worth forsaking society for, and beyond those things, he never knew love for a woman.

As if it would help him, he stopped breathing.

Her thumb stroked his hand and his entire being rebelled. He ripped away, gasped a breath, and shut his eyes from her despair.

“I’m sorry, I–” His shoulders rose against his neck. Nausea spun his balance, and fear towards her weakened his knees. Sighing, he rubbed his face. Through his hands, he asked her to shut the window. “The seagulls’ caws sicken me. I can’t listen to them any longer. And I mustn’t–”

The door creaked open. A black-toed foot poked around the corner. The maid from before emerged, curtsied, and cleared her throat to speak.

Elliot interrupted her: “What is the time?”

In a divined answer, the bell for the ninth hour rang. The world paused to count each toll. After silence came and the tension grew thicker, Elliot blurted, “Forgive me mine observance; 'tis the time for me to conduct morning prayer. My regret is that I must go. You’ve all my gratitude for your invitation to meet you. Another time, if it pleases you, we may speak again.” He tucked a hand behind him to flourish with the other as he bowed.

Without waiting for more than Mrs. Retherford’s distant “Of course,” Elliot withdrew past the maid for the golden-handled door. In his heart, he cursed his stupidity and cowardice. He knew to say yes to her was to invite destruction. To say no as he did was to hate himself--all because he could not bring himself hate her. A mistake was all their meeting was. He knew that too from the start. Though he tried, he had no hope she had any information on his father. Being proven right was his agony. He could have continued the attempt–kissed her, told her yes, yes he could love her, and given her the words she wanted in exchange for the ones she promised him–but he feared her bravery for its cruelty. Denying himself was a misery he would allow only himself to do–that was what strength made him flee, vulgar solace that it was. He did not think he had strength otherwise.

And clinging to his thoughts, he did not hear the maid announce just beyond the door that war had come, and that Elliot was walking into a battlefield.


	3. Atrocity in Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: extended & sometimes graphic violence, war imagery, body horror

Galden made sure not to push his luck with a comment. Eulmore loomed ahead of him, the Crystarium guard marched behind, and Nolanel trudged aside. And from his jaunt through the water, Nolanel, the captain desperate to maintain order, had boots that squelched from their drenching.

Thankfully, Vera made the gibe for him. She approached to knock on Nolanel’s pauldron, then lightly kicked at his ankle. “You gonna trade those clown boots in once we get there?”

“Aye, I’ll take yours if it concerns you so much,” he grumbled, feigning disinterest. Still, he focused his weight into his heels to deafen the ignoble sound.

Vera withdrew with a pleased smirk. The closer the group drew to battle, the more at ease she became. Excitement seemed to hover about her; now was the only time she was popular, when the others flocked to her to hide their fear. She knew none of their names or stories, cared nothing for their trust or lives, but she loved to hear their voices. Brags and promises and bets followed her–they all meant nothing more than their sound. And when the men and women around her died, she would know their voices as comrades in her dreams.

Nolanel kept his silence. He wished there were drums. The uneven crash of the surf accosted him instead. Overburdened wheels squeaked from the caisson wagons. Delicate under the army’s chatter, unintelligible talk drifted from the hovels of Gatetown. People scurried between the slum houses, startled by the invading force and unsure of how to deal with them. Nolanel wished now for his chocobo, to at least warn them in advance.

Galden’s interest lay beyond himself or people. He thought of the land, and all its worn flora, to better commune with it soon. Kholusia struck him as a wreck of island. Vylbrand’s windy slopes and deep-rooted plants seemed a utopia in comparison. Usually the environment struggled in society’s growth or flourished in mankind’s absence–but the land here suffered the same as its people from the light. He hoped, at least, a few of the hardier trees would respond to him.

Nolanel called to a man watching from the outskirts of Gatetown: “Is Father Faucillien around still?”

The man stared forward, mouth gnarling into a deeper frown, and turned wordlessly into an alley.

Slinging his weapon over his shoulder, Nolanel stamped ahead to ask another person for the priest. The others drifted in after him, setting to unloading and unpacking along the roadside.

Galden slipped into the bustle for a crate of his own. Part of him tired of moving with the crowd. He pinned the box under his arm and shoved through the workers and gawkers. Sidling, he navigated the rotten shacks to a clearing he’d perceived. Beyond the gutters of litter and refuse, a small cliffside remained mostly untouched. Galden dropped the crate to the yellowed grass and unlatched it. Armor waited inside–the only thing he brought with him to the First.

He knelt to the briny soil, shut his eyes, and attuned with the unknown land. Blanched by light, the response was quiet at first. Thin copse, bug-eaten trees, dry vines, gale-torn weeds. Their presences skimmed his soul like wind atop a lake–they did not disturb his aether, they could not commune with it. He concentrated, straining his focus to its limit. Moss clung to rusted Talos, stripped bark lay near cook fires, trunks split and toppled awaited the call for house wood. The soil broke against his psyche like a blast of sand. It may as well have been. All it could bear was sour grapes and brown wheat, taunting dandelions, and wispy ryegrass. None of it was enough.

He shifted to Eulmore, rotten city of destroyed land. Within its coarse white walls, waxy fronds swayed to the dives of seagulls. Hot houses blustered with clustered lilies, proud rhododendrons, and intoxicating poppy fruit. In choking ceramic, ancient trees bent from the curved ceilings. Juniper bushes crowded against gilt partitions; tulips strove toward artifical light; a wintery pine languished in the scalding heat of a parlor window. It was a white cedar that finally responded–centuries old, proud, tired, desposed from its throne for use as a hall centerpiece.

Its aether rung with an abyssal pitch, and seeped into Galden’s body to overtake the beat of his heart. He doubled with the throe it took to keep from screaming. The power he wanted would not give itself freely; it blazed through his veins and pulsed with his lungs, forcing itself into each cell. But his body was his own, strengthened though it was by others’ magicks, and he would not relinquish it to puppetry. His will dominated; the pain ebbed to a welcome hum; he inhaled to silence and opened his eyes to control.

Galden wasted no second and turned to his armor. He drew his fingers across the visor and horns with reverence, catching the fabric of his gloves in scratches from forgotten blades. Chain mail hissed and metal scraped; treated leather shone in the eternal sun. His ankles and wrists clanked as he rotated them. He returned to his armor, the sound and pressure of it like a welcomed nostalgia. He shut the visor. It sealed with a promise: he would not set his blade down until justice had been wrought.

The land answered with a vortex of power. His armor pulsed once in sync with infernal magic; his soul stone blazed over his heart, black with fury. Wrath howled in the hollows of his bones. His teeth grit with the strain of power. The wind swept over his back and skated the cold sheen of his gauntlets, gathering in his palms, bursting when he shut his hands into fists.

The familiarity of the process braced him, and power played in his brain with hubris. He stood and felt more like himself than ever in the First. This Shard’s ways had to have been learned to fit himself into them–now he felt assured that he had no need to conform. Let them question. Let them hate. He would fight.

But as he stood, his body seized. Whiteness flashed across his sight, blinding him several seconds. His knees buckled and he crashed to the soil. He thought it the Echo, but no vision came. Pain shot through him as the land rebelled. It knew he was an intruder, and would not yield itself again; Galden fought for composure as betrayal crushed him; that irreverent darkness within him wanted control.

Three aethers warred in his bones. He must be himself, he must be stronger, he could *not become what he was before–

He gasped for breath and reached for his sword. Threads of black light arose from the hilt and split to trail up his arm and down the blade. Numbness came with its impercievable touch. The movement of aether in his arm paused. As in frostbite taking a limb, all life and power fled to his heart–and there he regained order with the bodied soul the others lacked.

Galden released the claymore, unsure of how long the trick would last, and forced himself to walk. The others could not wait for him to recover like some invalid–he would go to them, and he would have no choice but to stand as he should.

He ducked beneath a thin curtain to return to the town center. People hurried to the wilds, their meager belongings in their arms. Through the bustle, Nolanel seized a guard’s arm, twisted it, and shoved him to the ground. The man scrambled against the dirt. Other soldiers snickered while he clawed his way to his feet to join them.  
Nolanel scoffed. “Don’t disrespect the townspeople. If you’ve the time to make jeers, you’ve the time to get them away from the tower. We’re to evacuate the last of them–now. Then get in position.” He rubbed his face, exhausted of troublemakers, and beckoned for Vera. The soldiers dispersed. Galden didn’t care to see any further drama; he followed the others towards Eulmore.

Vera shoved through the mob around a supply crate and threw a new pair of boots at Nolanel’s feet. “Slick ‘em with blood, not sea water,” she said, not quite looking at him.

Beyond the flat roofs of the town, the rest of the Crystarium army approached. The barrels of artillery shone a blinding white as they crept closer. Chocobo-drawn carriages jostled over the gravel, bearing pallets of ammunition, tarp, and medicine. The titter of snare drums just spanned the distance. Amaro brought up the rear for emergency withdrawls to the moored ships, where the decks were busy being transformed into makeshift hospitals.

Nolanel felt there was no time left to him to watch or answer. He snatched the shoes up, replaced his soggy boots, and started for the Open Arms gate. By now others had gathered near the structure, crowding in the shade to keep their armor from heating in the relentless sun.

Galden sat among them, attentive to their banter, occasionally cracking a smile. He swatted at the pair poking at his foreign armor in admiration, and looked over the legion of identical uniforms. They waited in lines of stiffened leather and steel, only divided by armor ties of different colors for rank and assignment. Accents peaked out only by whatever bits they had stowed in their parade uniforms before landing: thicker gorgets, more responsive gauntlets, heavier arming coats.

It almost astounded him how human they were–exchanging last-minute dues, clapping helms and straightening tags, one group praying as another played roulette with their flasks. A man stuffed a playing card into each of his friends’ visors; a commotion erupted over the joker card. Against the gate post, someone called attendance through their dance card for the next military ball–everyone in it better keep their promise for each song. A smuggled tin of cookies made rounds through the crowd. Song rumbled though them with broken pitch, but it was more fun to sing badly than well. Damningly, Galden had been ready to dismiss them as pawns. He’d forgotten people were people before they needed help. Why did he remember?

More soldiers piled into the shantytown. They parted from their march into each alley and space–anywhere but the main road, where heavy artillery roared into place. Talk hushed. Stragglers pulled away towards the cliffsides. The wheels on the Crystal Cannons screamed as they neared the city. When it stopped, everyone went silent. Below, waves crashed. Above, the faint music of an orchestra taunted the invaders.

Nolanel stiffened as he recognized the song--from the Church of Light--and the Crystal Cannon fired a bolt of pure power.

The blast deafened those near it, awed those waiting to charge, and killed any Eulmorans too slow to move from its path. Before the smoke could clear, Nolanel’s group stormed through the singed wood and corpses. A second team entered to barricade the corridor’s supply rooms. They routed the Eulmoran guards, seized the horrified clerks, and secured the lifts. Galden and his team burst through to the stairwell, the chaos of fighting above them and the movement of reinforcements behind.

Sound assailed him in the tight passage. The walls’ spinning white seemed to amplify the roar of footsteps. Unconsciously, his senses faded to a jumble. Commands from other units reached him like a foreign language. It didn’t matter. Not so long as he could go forward. Easily, he did; he would not allow himself the moment to pause and remember how far he climbed, what scream was an enemy’s, or any other inconsequential thing. Dread did not matter, though it tensed his shoulders, and neither did hope, steadying his breath.

His body swayed closer to the wall to orientate itself. His pauldron ground into the stone. The shriek of it against his ear woke him from complacence. Yellow streaks of light flashed from the windows he flew passed. As soon as he tired of the monotony, the inner wall broke into lines of marble pillars. Their shadows barely touched the strikingly crimson walls of the Mainstay within, but their width provided enough shelter to interrupt the barrage of arrows loosed within.

The Eulmoran army stood in formation throughout what was visible of the cylindrical headquarters: steps twisting up and down the outer walls, surrounding a stone pillar secured with architectural chains. The highest point of the stairs led to a metal drawbridge. Though upright, once lowered, it would extend into the Mainstay’s crystal heart.

Within every sloped wall, people rioted in jail cells. They clawed from between the bars, howling for attention, desperate to join even the coming carnage for freedom. Up to three wailed from each cage set into the walls. To drown out their cries, the Eulmoran shoulders beat their swords into the bars. The prisoners shrunk back. But as their wardens abandoned them to the fight, they returned to their screaming.

The soldiers’ horned purple armor seemed red in advance from the artificial light. Their immaculate weapons, never used beyond training, shifted in their grips as they waited for the Crystarium Guard to clear the bolted entrance.

Galden shoved the door and strained his hearing for the sound of the bolt. Metal struck metal. Godsdamn. The entire group halted. Mages lined their backs against the stretch of pillars, flinging bulks of ice and fire into the Mainstay. In response, the arrows clattering into the stairwell changed to streams of explosive flame.

Smoke swelled to the ceiling as fabric caught fire. People hurled themselves to the ground. Cloaks hissed and sizzled, thrown back through the gaps. Trapped beneath armor, burning cloth ate deeper. Skin popped with boils and charred to blackness, hair erupted into fire; bodies went stiff. More than a few who dropped to the stone did not stand to flee.

Crystarium soldiers further down in the stairwell stirred with the commotion. Their scared voices merged into an unintelligible demand for answers. They shoved forward, pushing others into the Eulmorans’ line of sight and exposing them to the next arrow barrage. Fury leant their screams a new resonance. The unbearable noise rent Galden’s patience. No sapper could shove through that chaos in time.

Galden lifted his sword. Energy flowed from his hands and swirled around the claymore. Magic warped the blade’s sheen into pockets of deep emerald and blinding silver. He braced himself, set his shoulders and knees, and rushed forward. The blade screeched against stone, then steel; its point sunk into the door hinge. All the magic channeled through the sword burst with a vapor of indefinite color, shattered rock, and sound. The heavy door groaned and sagged inward.

As Galden lugged his weapon back to destroy the next hinges, several soldiers paused from hauling bodies free of the path. They gaped and cursed their confusion, scrambled back to the thrashing line, and readied their lances afore them.

The doors rocked from the pressure of Galden’s magic. They struck the ground, tore chunks from the adjacent walls, and toppled into the Mainstay. Confusion rippled through the Eulmorans at the sight of their yielding barricade. No gunsmoke, no hiss of fuses or fire catching–just the shout of an unknown man to the rest of the invaders: “How’s that? Let’s get this done with!”

Galden raced across the fallen doors. The path forked left and right against the wall–one into the lower quarter, and the other up towards the generator. He hefted his greatsword aside as he charged, fury blinding him from worry, and swung it into the approaching line. The first wave of Guard soldiers aligned behind him.

Axes lifted and lances staged, weapon broke against weapon in unending clamor. Galden’s blade split armor and bone.

Galden swung his weapon overhead and smashed it into a Eulmoran’s helmet. The curved horns bent against the pressure. With a screech reminiscent of imperial steel, the helm cratered.

Storms of ice and flame exploded overhead from mages’ casts, scattering over the armies. The embers caught on wisps of clothing and smoked. Like hail, ice beat over armored backs and crunched under rampaging feet. A commotion rose from the lower end of the room, where a Eulmoran arrow struck a Eulmoran soldier dead. All turmoil unleashed.

Helmets split and breastplates dented. Bodies–common obstacles–were crushed underfoot. Wood splintered and metal cracked, cloth tore and sliced, blood slicked the floor and the shaking grips on weapons.

Shoulders caught in axe heads; blades vanished to the hilt guard in chests. Clerics lay shot through their crimson badges. Glory yielded to revenge. Decadent fiends, in trusts with the blight of life, those light-soaked–

As if a switch had been flipped, the prisoners changed. Their screams for help warped to terror and pain. Light crept through their veins, searing their wan skin with crystalline white. Their harrowed faces stiffened to porcelain. The eldest turned first. As the others turned to stone, their spines warped and bent to stab ribs forward. Hips twisted to fit the legs with savage haunches; necks curved and trembled with growth. Their lengthened teeth snapped with hunger. Howling, their minds lost behind instinct, they devoured the half-transformed caged with them. The sin eaters’ bodies writhed and joined into a worse beast, slobbering white blood against the walls and bars.

With calculated timing, the locks on the cells clicked free. Sin eaters burst into the fray.

Confusion came with them, freezing archers mid-knock and mages mid-cast. Swords fell. Soldiers were killed afore the sin eaters lunged for them; others succumbed to hellish fangs and talons, their bodies stolen into ivory.

One lumbered into sight, half transformed, a Guard cape dragging at its heels. Its claw-like hands sunk into its jawline like gills on a fish. With a single tear, it ripped its face open to reveal an emotionless mask. Slick white blood dripped down its elongated neck.

Galden marched to it. His footsteps struck with the force of two men. Within seconds, the sound split into a distinct echo. A momentary blindness overcame him as Fray carved free of his being. Aether burned from the fission in his soul, then patched itself with a fury that guised as reason. Knit from shadow and prayer, Fray took form in a mimicry of Galden’s armor. Boughs and vines of indefinite shape crawled across each blackened plate. Their stride was identical; their viciousness was rooted in the same cause; their weapons rose together over the sin eater’s mutating body.

Blood and aether scattered under their attack. The sin eater shuddered as its newly-formed bones splintered. No sound came from it. Life seeped from its hold. Like grains of sugar, crystal light blotted the monster’s skin. It burst.

Galden angled away from the shower and raced up the path. The battle, the heat of horror and blood, the apocalyptic cycle of death–it seemed a repeat of Holminister.

Order seemed a patchwork of memory. Each hour stitched to the next, mimicking the color of the last until the original color was lost in innumerable shades of red. Legs wrenched at the knee, tendons snapped and muscles tore, bone split free of ruptured skin, metal ground against ribs, teeth caught with blood in throats. Separate battles became one, and he seemed to be fighting for everything at once. His old life faded to devote himself to this moment of fury. The battles were the same, but the reasons–the angers–they were different. 

Ahead, the generator hummed within its confine. Blue crystal cast light across the stone and metal supports, and excess heat waved in the pocked ceiling. A contingent of archers formed the final line of defense before the entrance. Thin barriers of magic shimmered afore them, azure and pathetic. What withstood flame and barb could not shelter from Galden’s steel. 

His form overlapped with Fray. His blade struck the archers a second before Fray’s–or a second behind. He could not tell which will was his; they wanted the same thing. Eulmore must bleed. Longbows and corpses tumbled through gaps in the paltry railing. Sin eaters barreled toward him on wings and claws. The generator door flashed red.

Galden bolted down to rejoin the Crystarium’s fight. With a laugh Galden almost heard, Fray slipped into the heart of the city.

Darkness enveloped Eulmore.


	4. Miracle in Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: extended violence, war imagery, injury, brief dissociation

At the peak of the last paradise, a Eulmoran orchestra received the notice to immediately halt the current movement and play a hymn from the Church of Light. The religion held few pious followers in Eulmore's tower, but tradition must be upheld--particularly when it enforced convenient injustices. In playing one of its hymns, the people of the city were reminded of what excused their extravagance--what must be defended, and that every last soldier must do just that. To the unconcerned, bored, and unaware, the music served the same purpose as before: to shelter gossip in its sound, and to hurry the day on.

When the tower rumbled from impact, the orchestra cut to silence. In the audience, patrons howled their fear and writhed from their seats. Stamping her feet and rapping the music stand, the conductor roared for control. Several people, hearing the racket from outside for the first time, pushed towards the exit. They glimpsed the first deaths of the upper levels, were shoved back into the concert hall, and left to panic.

Idristan's team of archers spread across the level. They struck flints against their arrows and loosed them, aflame, into the curtains. Fire caught with a second’s hesitation. The fabric burst into singes. Patches fell loose atop the crowd of awaiting soldiers, drifting atop pauldron and helm; other displays fell at once, trapping enemies under blankets of flame.

With a sound indistinguishable from the crackle of fire, the lights went out. The fountain sputtered; the ceiling fans slowed to a halt; the chandeliers took the silhouette of monsters in the black. Another arrow volley struck from nowhere; bolts of lightning shot from the hallway; dozens of Guard soldiers charged, already bloody from their ascent.

Nolanel emerged from the stairwell to see the languid aetheryte spinning in the atrium center, splashed with rosewater and blood. Eulmoran guards assembled awkward lines at each thoroughfare. Behind their polished shields, vexed soldiers herded terrified nobles from view. The sight of powdered men and silken women arose a type of pity in Nolanel; their stricken faces reminded him of the horror he'd become inured to. They must have heard it what he ignored, too: the din of carnage downstairs, and the racing drum of his heart.

But they were not to be his concern. Others would secure the free citizens to their parlors and halls, disarm their glorified security, and lock the doors. Down the halls of their estates, he remembered, would be his final task--but for now he advanced to the suspended terrace.

The bodies beneath the flaming curtains burst. Cloth flung away with strips of flesh, revealing blackened and boiled figures, their eyes gone, their armor caving into hollowed, bubbling chests. As their marrow took flame, the stench intensified; all attention turned to them.

The calloused stabbed their distracted opponent and moved to the next. Nolanel kept walking. A slash of red sinew marred his ankle--the blurry sheen of his mail reflected it, and Nolanel felt more bloodied by forgone conflicts than this one. To ground himself, his fingers brushed a frosted panel of the lantern fastened to his waist; it was history, accomplishment--and like nothing else--it was his.

Ahead, five soldiers squabbled on the outside deck. Two were of the Guard.

The light of the unholy sky drew flares across his vision. As he adjusted to the glare, he rose his weapon to guard against awaiting enemies. His senses lagged. Purple velvet ropes, gilded suspension wires, glossy wood, distant birds. Mayhap it was beautiful. Else it was vanity. The silent wind moved his thoughts: why did he think at all? He needed to return to chaos, to more than himself, and to painlessness.

A body slammed into him from behind. Hands slipped against his armor for a hold. Nolanel spun and elbowed the stranger down. His leg rose to kick their blond head through. He stopped.

No helmet? No armor.

A Viera man gawked at a yalm's distance. His arms were outstretched from pushing the blond, hands now raising in fear and surrender. He backed away. A black dress suit. Legs like twigs. No armor.

Why were they here. The nobles had been contained to the other side. 

The soldiers on the bridge faded from memory. Nolanel jerked to grab the Viera afore he could flee.

With a gasp, the man on the floor lunged to his feet and threw himself into Nolanel's path. "Stop, don't hurt him!" He bit his quivering lips and glanced for the one he meant to protect, but the Viera had vanished.

With his cohort gone, the last of his strength ebbed, and he realized that he'd been betrayed twice.

Nolanel's face twisted in disgust. He understood fear. He understood cowardice. But treachery had no place in any field.

The blond man babbled incessantly. Unwilling to listen, Nolanel shoved him toward the plaza and the rest of the citizens. Someone would pick him up there--or have the patience to humor his talk.

Nolanel drew his weapon and proceeded once more. One of the Guard soldiers hit the ground, leg pinned askew below them, and was sent flailing over the bridge by a kick. The scramble resumed, but one Eulmoran split to prevent Nolanel from interfering.

She rose her axe, crept warily towards him, and flinched.

The crystal cannon fired into the bridge's far entrance. The three far soldiers were lost in the light. Everything shook. Nolanel stamped his hobnails into the wood, but the varnish gave him no hold. Above and below, suspension wires snapped and whipped into the stone. The bridge lurched, and the metal supports strained and screamed as they buckled beneath the extra weight. The platform slumped towards the gray ocean, nearly at a right angle.

Nolanel pinned his halberd against two railing stakes with his back. His arms hooked around the actual rail, and he leaned into gravity. Partway between apathy and frenzy, he held his breath and prayed in his head not to die here. He secured his balance by resting his full weight into his torso, then he kicked for the woman's knee.

She jerked from reach and cursed him, lips curled. The bridge quavered into a harsher incline. She tucked her leg beneath her and set her weight into it; she knelt, eyes wild with thought, and skid involuntarily towards the sea. With a shaking grip, she tucked her axe beside her to swing. Her body tensed, but the open rail gaped nearer, so she sprung from the deck and twisted, slamming her axe into the wood for a hold.

It would not sustain her. The blade slipped free. She screamed as she hurled her axe to the sky, drew the knife at her hip, and abandoned everything in rage: she did not try again to save herself. Spite returned her to Nolanel. She took the dagger in both hands and lunged for him as she fell.

The knife slammed into his arm, grinding against his armor and jamming into the curve of his elbow. She crashed atop him, and his feet lost their purchase on the bridge for a moment. He writhed to loose her from his torso, but she clung to him, knife carving through his arming coat.

His halberd cracked. The haft splintered against his back. He choked. She laughed.

The knife stabbed into his right arm, loosening his hold on the railing. By instinct, he jerked aside. The weapon snapped.

Nolanel fell. The back of his head slammed into the rail. A ringing echo, then gravity.

The freedom and violence of the winds chilled him--and left him. He crashed into a glowing panel, azure blue, and went limp.

The woman pounded against the same platform. Her armor screeched and sparked as she veered towards its edge. Holding Nolanel's gaze with her maddened, desperate glare, she clawed for a grip. A stuttered word, as unintelligible as the chaos in the tower, was her last before she plunged. Her voice broke under the force of her wail. Nolanel's ears rang from it, and he knew he'd meet that sound in hell. 

His head pounded, and his body trembled as he pulled himself into a crouch. The knife loosened from his arm and clattered to the platform. The blood scattered from it smeared as he dragged it back to him. His fingers clenched around its hilt in pain; his right arm stiffened from injury.

Above, the bridge seemed to settle on its side. The suspension wires swayed in taunt, and the supports lay twisted or reached for the gray water. Beyond the archways into the plaza, silhouettes flashed as the final resistance was quelled.

Nolanel heaved a breath, held his throbbing arm, and staggered to his feet. Blood welled around his armored fingers and the knife hilt. He could make the jump back to the rail with luck. If the ache of his head was any indication of the rail's strength, it should hold his weight. Trusting in that hope, he set his teeth and approached the bridge.

A blond head poked from the other side. "Are you all right!?" Strain colored his angular face, and he puffed as he scrambled over the side for a look. To no effect, the noble's hands slapped against the flat walkway of the bridge for a hold. But his mouth continued to run. "I was trying to catch my balance--and my breath--here, so forgive my lateness. That ward won't hold as long as my faith, so you ought to start moving."

Nolanel gaped. How did--But--Did this man realize he spoke to the enemy? No matter. He flexed his right hand to keep it active, stamped his foot onto the rail, and leaned into the bridge until he balanced.

The wood scuffed on the opposite side. Mirroring Nolanel, the noble climbed along the bents on the bridge's underside to sidle toward the tower. Less than three yalms to safety.

"Thank you for helping me. I tried to return the favor, but I must ask: why are you here? Why this--all this?"

Nolanel ignored him. The blue light of the ward faded. Grunting, he stabbed the knife into the wood for grip. He concentrated on his feet, the pressure of his soles against the metal, and how none of this would matter within the hour.

"Please? You owe me at least that much, surely? Can't I tempt you to trust me?"

The sight of the ocean knotted Nolanel's stomach. Nausea waved through him, and the noble's talk infuriated his thin patience. He bashed his knee guard into the wood. The bridge trembled; the noble screamed.

"Stop! Why are you--"

An arrow ricocheted off one of Nolanel's pauldrons. A Eulmoran archer stood in the archway, face obscured in their helmet, and knocked a second arrow.

The next arrow hit. It shattered his lantern, scattering glass, and pierced the armor of his thigh. Nolanel roared a curse. Crystalline shards of glass and blood beat against the railing and glinted in their plummet. He slammed the knife into the wood for a deeper hold, shaking the bridge again.

"Stop that!" The noble's head poked over the rim again. His amber eyes widened as he spotted the man he meant to rebuke bleeding--again. He clawed higher, calling for attention, and finally waved for the archer. As he yelled, his voice became more severe and certain: "Don't fire! Or loose! Whatever--Just stop! He's with me. With us. Never mind his armor. Put that down and help. Hurry!"

Though the archer lowered their weapon, the noble recoiled in his own surprise. His thin eyebrows knit, and he seemed almost impressed with himself. But even he knew not to reflect; he climbed to the archway and leaped to the tile, stumbling from relief.

Nolanel steadied his breathing and wrenched the knife free. He stabbed it into the bridge with each step he took to safety. With a clarity that disgusted him, he recognized that sound died in his ears again. His body seemed someone else's as he inched onward. The extended hand of the archer doubled in his eyesight.

He blindly reached. They grabbed him. The knife remained in the bridge. Nolanel buckled into the grip of the archer. Pride and spite ravaged his gratitude, and he considered throwing the archer to the sea--but the noble grabbed him, reeled him away, and sat him against the wall.

Nolanel pressed to the wallpaper, batted the man away, and snapped the shaft of the arrow. The cap of his lantern remained clipped to his belt. Scoffing, he ripped it free and hurled it to the sky. His eyes shut. Hatred waved through him, bringing him back to himself. The tower trembled as a third shot from the cannon struck. That's it, then. Time's up.

Despite the noble's protests, Nolanel hauled himself up using the wall. "Come then," he said, the archer forgotten.

"Wait! Your injuries--Something must be done." He scurried ahead to block the plaza. "Give me a minute of your faith. The fountain is stopped. I can freeze the wine--I can--"

"You can make the glowing panel again?"

"Yes, but--"

"Good. Come with me."

The noble held his ground. "Stop interrupting me. Who are you?"

Nolanel growled and looked at the ash-stained ceiling. "Captain Feran. Now come, I haven't time."

Half-satisfied, and almost conceitedly, the noble smiled. He chirped his own name in reply--"Elliot Cadieux"--and twirled to the carnage he'd forgot. He stopped.

Nolanel put a hand to his shoulder, squeezed, and lightly pushed him onward. "I'm sorry," he said, knowing naught would suffice. It chilled him, ripped him from his hard-won calm, and stung his eyes with remorse. He slowed; he remembered the white-fleshed bodies on the floor, frozen and twisted amidst the chars of others.

A trail of blood wound to the Grand Dame's Parlour, where medics shoved friends away from the dying. Eulmorans flit about securing alcohol for antiseptic, raiding cabinets for fresh cloth, and clearing the counter as an exchange table for water and knives. A scholarly drunk quibbled about the racket as he returned to consciousness, then was thrown aside by a soldier demanding a drink. At the foot of the stairs to the bar, shattered pottery lay on the floor with its lost soil and trampled flowers; pieces of armor lay apart from eviscerated corpses.

Nolanel finally looked away. The effect was worse here than downstairs and whatever was before. This was not meant to happen, even in this corrupted place. His pace increased. Even in the relative dark, his limp was obvious; the aetheryte flashed ahead, illuminating his unsteady feet.

Elliot did not respond except to lean into Nolanel's hand. If the apology did not affect him, the attempt at comfort did. As if it could transform what he saw, or defend himself from it, he held his breath and focused on the sheen of armor ahead. A line of Crystarium Guards barricaded the avenues deeper into the tower.

Straight-backed with fake ease, Nolanel drew his visor up for them to allow passage.

Elliot veered in front to spy his face.

Nolanel scowled, leery, and pushed the gawking man through the crowd. Murmurs roamed around them in an unidentifiable measure; Nolanel thought they disapproved of his jeopardizing injuries; Elliot pressed closer to quietly ask if the soldiers thought him a villain.

"No," Nolanel grunted, assailed by the tinker of armor as each eye followed him. The worry in Elliot's gaze became his refuge. Every other regarded him with pity or respect; he wanted neither in this moment. Words moved beyond him. The hall curved into a descent ahead. Before he took it, he turned his back to it and saluted the others, silent.

As if a cold wind had lanced through, the audience went stiff. Many returned the salute by impulse, and others by gravity, spite, penance, or gratitude. They ignored him, or gave him full attention, and shuffled awkwardly back to themselves as Nolanel abruptly broke the salute. Before he departed, he ripped a sword from the closest man's grip to use as a walking stick.

Elliot stood apart from them all, terrified by the conflict of responses. He lagged behind Nolanel into the hall with new foreboding. "Am I still to follow you?"

"Aye, let's get this over with. I need to read the door plaques. My lamp is broken, but your wards glow."

"Yes, I--" He coughed, cleared his throat, and summoned a orb between his raised hands. It illuminated the corridor in azure; massive doors broke the monotony of wallpaper every few yalms, and the light reflected in the golden handles and address plaques. Elliot glanced behind. Abstractedly, he asked, "How can you be so brave?"

The lines of Nolanel's face deepened in pain and concentration. He squinted at the nearest plaque and muttered, "I'm not brave. I'm calm."

The lights flickered back on for a moment, then died.

"Fuck." Nolanel lurched to check the next door. "Hurry." 

"Why this attack? Why are you here alone?"

"I've you."

"What are we looking for?"

Nolanel clutched his arm. "Certain estate. Forlemont."

Elliot peered at the current plaque, considered it a moment, and said, "Four doors down. 'Twill be on the left."

Nolanel leaned into the wall and eyed him under heavy lids. He shook his head, dizzied from the strain of his body and mind. "Who are you?"

Tilting his head, Elliot smiled coyly and said, "A pianist," as he ambled to the correct door. When he wasn't followed, he frowned, his second victory spoiled. He turned to the dark. "Yoo-hoo! Sir?"

Nolanel finished a prayer with a quiet "have mercy." His hands flexed back to his sides, and he lifted himself from against the wall with deliberation. Portions of his armor caught the light and shone pale blue, and when he removed his helm, his face was left in shrouds. His lips pursed as he tread to the door, but he avoided glancing at its glossy white.

In the man before it he saw a life worth living. Blood blackened the whimsicality of his orange overcoat, and his gold hair was clotted with ash and sweat. Even so, defiance writ itself on his sensitive face. Terror gripped him less than fairness. Confidence seemed the only fake thing about him, though he tried to conceal his study of Nolanel's bearing. He tensed as if to speak, but he held his breath instead.

Nolanel removed his earclip and rubbed a thumb over its surface. From under his thick hair, a red scar marred the flesh of his ear. He sighed as he held it out to Elliot, and his voice seemed to come from a place hidden inside him when he spoke--fear colored each word. "You need to go back. Run. The Cannon will fire anon. But take this first. If the other Guard start roughhousing, tell them Nolanel said to take care of you. They'll know. And thank you--Bless you for your help."

Elliot delicately accepted the clip, his fingertips glancing across Nolanel's palm afore the soldier jerked his hand back. The ward hovered between them, throwing their silhouettes across the hall. Nolanel's shadow touched the high ceiling, making him appear small and mortal amidst the dark. Somewhere below, an explosion rumbled through the tower. Nolanel cringed; Elliot didn't change. Concern whelmed him, and he asked, squeezing the metallic clip, "Why are you doing this?"

Nolanel wanted to tell him everything. How he should not be a captain, but a lieutenant; his captain is Brucemont; his soldiers are Brucemont's; their loyalty is with a man who lay in twain in Holminster Switch, skull crushed around the right eye. He was the last to see that man, and the last to hear his laugh, as Brucemont ripped the officer pin from his collar and stabbed it into Nolanel's neck to promote him. Today was the first and final day he would command; Vera would take his place as he wanted; the others respected her. He could take the lone job; he was long used to the dark from the tunnels beneath this place; how he loathed this tower for all it destroyed in him; it shattered his father, but mercy ought to damn them both. There was no cure; he could not help; he strangled her on the beach; he let them die; he would die now through that door. He took retribution when he saw it and it led him here--but fate would torment him to the last, and it brought him to sympathy in the form of a prying musician. Fuck's sake. What didn't he want from life?

Nolanel choked on disgust, but he still answered truthfully: "Because I don't ask questions." He put his helm on to keep from seeing Elliot’s reaction. His arm twinged, and he felt suddenly that he wanted to be done with--he stepped around Elliot and told him to go.

Elliot gawked, some rebuttal working ineffectually through him, and finally obeyed. He grabbed Nolanel’s hand and squeezed it, looking at him with such warmth it paralyzed him, and released him to walk away in silence, the light departing with him. The plaque on the wall, formerly hidden behind Elliot, read the correct name.

Nolanel snapped a tasset free of his waist. From a pouch hidden against his leg, he retrieved a small cube. Geometric veins pulsed cerulean throughout its metallic surface. A thick line of blue light segmented it in half. He shut his eyes to focus on it, activating it into a startling yellow. He knew it only as a mechanism from the Crystal Tower, a weapon to destroy sin eaters, and his death. Heat built in its core as he hesitated. The only thing that would prevent him from looking back to Elliot would be to open the door, so he smashed the cube against the white paneling.

An invisible ward raged into view, sparking and fizzing. In seconds, the whirring cube dismantled it, and a thud sounded from within the suite. Nolanel flinched from the fire of it against his palm. He railed against the fray of his nerves, embraced the umbral current, and summoned ice. Frost gathered on the fingertips of his free hand. With effort that left him breathless, he clamped the door handle and pierced it through with ice, freeing the lock. Using the momentum, he slammed himself through.

Sineaters crouched in hostile watch, prowling the edges of the parlor, ivory-skinned under the glimmering chandeliers. Bowls of fresh-washed fruit and wine shone near gorging maws of fangs, and magicked torches illuminated the pristine armor of winged eaters. No windows allowed a view into the corrupted sky. As Nolanel stumbled into the den, he regret not looking at the clouds a last time. He collapsed to his knees on the decadent rug, gasped under the perfume, and wrenched the sides of the cube apart.

His body curled over blinding light, the deafening pitch of aether, life and light drained. The sineaters languished in silence, their forms undergoing the same enervation and destruction that made him scream. Adrenaline, exhaustion, and taunting sleep, heart and thoughts rusted, the ebb of pain to coldness, and the sense of ribs curling, bent bones, collapsed spine, the familiar burn of skin, hair torn from his scalp, blood rushing to a halt, the seize of crystal in his lungs. The sineaters fell dead around him. Light flooded the split weapon--a siphon. Everything quaked from the cannon’s fourth blast. The floor of the room gave out. Masonry crumbled, and the white dust of stone and sineater clotted the air. Nolanel knew a blue glow, Elliot’s body around him, then nothing but the blinding flash of light returning to Eulmore.


End file.
